There was something about O-liver that would
have made anybody back down. He didn't have a gun; it was just something
in his voice."
"Say, he's wasted," said Atwood. "A man with his line of talk might be
President of the United States."
"Sure he might," Henry agreed. "I've told him a lot of times he's
throwing away his chance."
II
The office of the incipient oil king was on the main street of the
straggling town. At the back there was a window which gave a view of a
hill or two and a mountain beyond. The mountain stuck its nose into the
clouds and was whitecapped.
It was this view at the back which O-liver faced when he sat at his
machine. When he rested he liked to fix his eyes on that white mountain.
O-liver had acquired of late a fashion of looking up. There had been a
time when he had kept his eyes on the ground. He did not care to
remember that time. The work that he did was intermittent, and between
his industrious spasms he read a book. He had a shelf at hand where he
kept certain volumes--Walt Whitman, Vanity Fair, Austin Dobson, Landor's
Imaginary Conversations, and a rather choice collection of Old Mission
literature.
Pages:
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248